


sure is the greatest thing since the last

by hypotheticalfanfic



Series: losers collex [2]
Category: The Losers (2010)
Genre: Clay's a sad bastard, F/M, Gen, How the Losers Got Together, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M for language, M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:54:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29783322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypotheticalfanfic/pseuds/hypotheticalfanfic
Summary: Roque had understood. The kids, too, in their way, but Roque had just gotten it, right away.
Relationships: Aisha al-Fadhil/Franklin Clay, Carlos "Cougar" Alvarez/Jake Jensen, Franklin Clay/William Roque
Series: losers collex [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2167029
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	sure is the greatest thing since the last

The thing is - Clay knows this - the thing is that he is only ever himself. Whatever self that turns out to be, whatever bullshit he cloaks it in; he can lose everything and still be the same bag of meat he's been his whole life. He’d be lying if he pretended to be a man who’s good at relationships, who’s capable of a healthy one, same as he’d be lying if he said Roque wasn’t the great heartbreak of his life in half a dozen ways.

“Novelty-seeking,” the shrink had called it after the first time he’d killed someone in the line of duty. Said Clay was the type of person always looking for the new, the next, the different, that a stable life wasn’t something he’d thrive in. A lot of the other stuff that shrink had said was real horseshit, like calling Clay a person with a propensity for violence when all Clay did was have appropriate responses to violent situations. But that one thing, the novelty-seeking, had rung real true. Combat made it easy: war’s always changing even when it’s SSDD. But domestic life…well, that was never quite Clay’s style.

And so when a woman or two maybe ended up being much the same: new thing, get bored, burn shit down - that was, to be honest, pretty great for him. Not great when and if he gets set on fire or blown up or stabbed or shot or more of the above in combination than might be optimal, no. But great in the sense that they got it, got him, got the inevitable destruction heading this way. And when it all blew up (or burned down, or bled out) it was just fulfillment of a fate, never a surprise.

Roque had understood. The kids, too, in their way, but Roque had just gotten it, right away. Oh, he gave Clay plenty of shit, asked pointed and obvious questions just to hear Clay weasel, but he’d gotten it in a snap. Roque used to do this thing when they were on long patrols, get Clay mad and distracted enough to stop fiddling and fucking around. He’d pick a fight about anything at all, bonus points if it was something he himself didn’t care about, and watch Clay grin, watch Clay leap right in. They’d worked, the two of them, and there were times Clay thought it’d be them together at the end, bloody and waiting for the last bullet, Roque needling him about some bullshit just to get him laughing.

Cockfighting, boxing, anything with blood and beer and money changing hands: that had been the ticket, back in the bad old days. Roque had kept him out of the worst of it, kept his sleaze at a manageable level, and some days, now, Clay would look to his left to see empty space and want to weep. He thought maybe he’d had a chance, somewhere along the way, to keep Roque there, to keep him to the left, watching his six, keeping him on the straight and narrow. Or, well, the less crooked, the less wide. Maybe if he’d found Max faster, maybe if he’d stayed away from Aisha, maybe if he hadn’t put the kids on that chopper and had instead died in the flash.

* * *

Roque had been a gamble, the first one. Clay’s got four spots to fill, whoever he wants, but they gotta be the right guys. He’s built temporary units before, fire teams and strike forces, and once upon a time he’d been good at it, but this group? This group’s gonna be his, and his alone, for as long as he’s got them. He needs a right-hand man, someone to bounce off of, and if they’re smarter than him (not difficult) so much the better. The first couple interviews are stiff, awkward, young white guys fresh out of the barracks, trying to say what they think he wants to hear. Clay knows his own rep, knows that “hand-picked elite special forces unit” is a pretty string of words. But these guys are boring, and straight-laced, and likely to care a lot more about procedure than would be optimal.

Then Roque swaggers in, fresh off getting kicked from his second-to-last chance, and a spark flares up in Clay’s brain (and, if he’s honest, points south of there as well). Roque holds himself like a military man, mostly, but the body language is all watchful, all coiled threat. He’s a cobra, he’s a bear trap, and Clay can’t keep the grin off his face. Gives him a hypothetical situation, definitely not a specific example from a recent mission that Clay had personally fucked up, and Roque stared up at the ceiling for a minute. Looked back down at Clay, a sardonic smile spreading over his face.

“Well, I’d say don’t go in the third floor first, but I get the feeling that’s what you did. I’ll wait to kill you when we get back, but we can salvage this.” And he does, point by point, Clay spinning the parameters and Roque adjusting the plan, faster and faster. Roque’s body language relaxes, his mouth quirks up, and Clay feels like a sunflower. He wants to work with this man, to make out with him, to fight with and against him. It’s gonna be fun.

“We’ll be in touch,” he stands, holds out a hand; Roque slaps it twice, laughs, does an actual handshake. “You’ve got the job, but I gotta interview a couple other guys.”

“Want me to knife ‘em?” Roque’s face doesn’t change at all.

“Tempting.” Very. “If you got names for a wheel man, a techie, and a sniper, though, I’ll take those.”

Roque looks shifty, just for a moment, and Clay’s grin gets bigger. “Sniper maybe. The others, nah.”

“Fantastic.”

* * *

The sniper Roque brings him is a cold fish, but there’s something in the eyes. Plus, he’s got enough black marks - non-reg hair, the hat thing, lots and lots of notes about being antisocial, temper problems - that Clay can easily get him. Oh, and also he’s a phenomenal shot. Obviously the Rangers don’t take guys who can’t shoot; but this guy, he’s got enough confirmed kills that, if they’re ever declassified, he’ll set some records. And in the worst, dogshit conditions, the most ramshackle operations — Clay can’t even imagine what this guy could do with a half-competent team around him. But more than that, he can see the calculating bastard thinking, always thinking, and Clay knows enough to know that guys smarter than him are a goddamned asset out in the field. “Alvarez—“

“Cougar,” the man interrupts.

“Sure. Cougar. Wanna join an elite hand-picked special forces team?”

The man just looks at Clay for a long, long minute. “Pay?”

Clay laughs. “Man after my own heart. Let’s say, generous.”

“Team?”

Clay shrugs. “Still need a techie and a wheel man. You got names?” Cougar shakes his head. “We’ll find ‘em. We’ll be a little island of misfit toys over here, and get paid to do the things we’re good at. Sound like a plan?”

Cougar grins, and, okay, Clay is generally mostly into women, mostly, but he wants to kiss Roque already, and if Cougar looks like that when he smiles, it’s gonna be a problem. He makes a mental note to hire someone guaranteed not to be so goddamned attractive.

“Oh, boss?” The man turns back, and Clay hears the sexiest thing anyone’s ever said to him. “I’m also medic-trained. Certifications and everything. In case.”

“Outstanding.”

* * *

Not that Porteous - “Pooch,” he introduces himself, friendly handshake - isn’t attractive. He is, obviously, but Clay can relax a little. The man’s personnel recs are sparkling: he’s never been on a team that didn’t love him, never had a fight that didn’t end with a growth experience for everyone. Best mental health assessments Clay’s seen in a decade. Something’s gotta be up with this guy.

“You’re married?”

The man smiles again, nods. “A couple years, yes, sir.”

“She mind you being gone?”

Pooch snorts. “Yeah, she hates getting to run the house the way she likes. Torture.” Relaxes just a little bit. “No, sir. She’s a military brat, way back. She’s used to it. When I was doing flight school she had to change the locks, lost her keys, and forgot to tell me. I thought she’d kicked me out, started trying to beg her to take me back through the door.” He grins. ”Anyway. Jolene’s great.”

“You come pretty highly recommended,” Clay flips through papers, “but I see a troubling trend here. You really hot-wired an ice cream truck to move munitions?”

Pooch’s face stills, the grin slips away. “Sir, we—“

“And you used an inflatable raft, some duct tape, and a bag of fireworks to call in a rescue team during a mudslide that your own heavy arms caused.”

He’s blanching now, a little pale. “Sir—“

“Yeah, this is a problem.” Clay closes the folder, leans back in his chair. “You gotta get a CO who’s open to ideas.”

Pooch blinks once, twice. “Uh.”

“Ice cream truck was smart. Raft was smarter. If you’d had somebody watching your back the slide wouldn’t have happened.” Clay motions to the folder in front of him. “You seem like you think fast, and that’s what we need. Plus, you’re less likely to snap and kill us all than the other guys so far.”

“Yeah, I’m good at that. Not killing my team, I mean.” Pooch still looks just this side of terrified, but his face is relaxing little by little. “Miss Congeniality, that’s me.”

“You wanna drive us? Shoot the big guns? Figure out faster ways to do dumb shit?”

“Hell yes, sir. The Pooch is in.”

There it is. “Does the Pooch often refer to himself in third person?”

* * *

Techie’s a tough gig. Best in the game get swooped out by other agencies, and Clay’s gotta have guys with fucked up records and/or something wrong with ‘em. He sees a parade of guys, all talented, all good, all absolutely wrong for the group he’s building. “Ah, fuck it.”

The Haberdashery is a terrible name for a bar, especially one with such a big military audience, but call it the Hab and it’s bearable. Plus, there’s live music twice a week, and a poker table. Clay does three quick shots. Should text Roque, talk options, but he’s hearing somebody jabber about dinosaurs, really specifically, and it’s distracting.

“Nah, man, you’re mistaken as shit. Pterosaurs, which are what you’re talking about, aren’t dinosaurs! It’s a bad name, I’m the first to admit — call, by the way — but they’re not. They’re basically big flying turtles.” The voice is fast, laughing, and Clay peers over to the table, trying to pick it out. “And pteranodons are just a pterosaur, like, you gotta read up, my man. Also, you’re bluffing, and you’re bad at it, so.” There: young guy, deceptive-looking, blond with a bad goatee and thick glasses. Grinning like a card shark and cleaning up. “Now, you wanna talk flying dinosaurs, you gotta look toward our tiny feathered friends—“ A yelp, and the blonde kid’s getting shoved down, getting beat to shit.

Clay goes on instinct. Pulls two guys off the kid, gets a few bone-jarring punches for his trouble. Kid comports himself just fine, and eventually the MPs trudge in and pull everybody off everybody else. Clay ducks back to the bar, leans away to try and shadow the blood off his face. Sure as shit doesn’t need an MP to notice him.

“Who started it?” That’s Miller, Clay knows her, knows that tired, over-your-shit voice like he knows his own. “Oh, hey Jensen.”

“Miller!” Jensen, then. He’s bleeding, one lens cracked, might lose a tooth, but he’s grinning anyway. “How you doin’? Did you try that bikram place yet?”

“I’m guessing he’s responsible,” she says to her team. “As usual. Man, try not to get killed, okay? Everybody go back to barracks, get some sleep. No reason to make me make you sorry.”

Jensen grins at her back as she leaves, turns his grin on Clay. “Hey, thanks, man.” Holds out one hand, knuckles wet with someone else’s blood. “I’m Jensen. I do computer shit.”

Clay smiles too, feels blood in his teeth. “Perfect.”

* * *

And just like that, the island’s full of misfit toys. Clay watches - Roque watches Clay - as the men settle in. Pooch is the grease for the gears, but they all find notches. Jensen and Pooch are ridiculous, goofy, full of cheer; Jensen and Cougar, Clay thought they’d hate each other, but instead they’re snapped together like a hinge, like they’ve just been waiting for the other. And Clay watches Roque, when Roque’s not looking: carefully, determinedly cutting through Pooch’s most recent duct tape contraption, just for fun. Silently playing some kind of five-finger fillet variant with Cougar, neither making eye contact but clearly having a rich conversation. Watches Roque poke and prod and pick on Jensen, not understand him, not get it; then watches Roque scramble out of a bed full of some kind of expanding neon foam, watches Roque insist the kid cut an inch off his boot heels, watches Roque and the kid finally have it out. Cougar takes the kid’s side, and Pooch pushes in between them all, and Clay watches. Roque and the kid, stitching up each others’ eyebrows because Cougar refused. “It’s your own damn fault,” he’d said, shrugging, and stalked away.

They gel into something. Drills go faster, live ammo exercises run smoother. The pranks get more aimed outward, less friendly fire. And Clay’s right there, watching, laughing, doing his part. He can give Roque a look, watch the clock start ticking. Jensen’s creative, smart, careful; funny, when not anxious, and thorough, more so the more he’s scared. Pooch has seams he didn’t show right away, didn’t get written up, but he sees everything like an exploded diagram, figures out how to take it apart and put it back together faster and smarter. Cougar’s got the soul of a Catholic, guilt and purity of spirit, and temper and pain to cover it up. And Roque, well. Roque’s a mean son of a bitch and a pain in the ass and the best second a man could beg for on god’s green earth. The group excels on every course, every trial, every joint training exercise. Some whiny scrub from a squad they just gut-stomped mutters something, and Pooch steps up. “I couldn’t hear you, man, what was that?”

“Bunch of fuckin’ losers.” The fight is bigger, meaner, not least because Pooch isn’t stopping it, and Clay is laughing as the MPs drag them all apart.

The Losers, then.

He asks Roque, once, watching Cougar stitch up Jensen’s fourth or eight bullet wound, watching Jensen describe the plot of some Hong Kong action movie none of them have ever heard of, watching Cougar listen. “You think they’re fucking?”

Roque watches, too. “Maybe. Maybe not yet. Want me to stop it?” He sounds just as he always does when he doesn’t yet know what Clay wants: calm, even, ready and waiting. He will stop them, stop it happening, if Clay asks.

Clay thinks about it for a long, long minute. “Nah. I’m no hypocrite.” Walks away, lets Roque stare after him. Things progress pretty quickly from there, and inside a month they’ve fucked twice and fooled around a dozen times. Roque’s great in bed, and Clay’s no slouch; they have a good time, nearly every time.

The kids talk, he knows: Pooch and Cougar and Jensen, comparing notes and making jokes. CO shouldn’t be too close to his men, though obviously the Losers are less than adherent.But it’s different with them versus with Roque, with people he’s allegedly in charge of versus someone barely restrained by any hierarchy. Roque fights with him, argues with him, holds grudges and memorizes every detail of every one of Clay’s fuckups. Clay mostly prefers women, and Roque basically hates everyone equally, but they’re not stupid. Or blind.

They’re angry, most of the time, when it starts to happen. Never on base, always out on a mission, and rarely even then. Sparring gets close, a clinch, bared teeth, a bite, and sooner or later the fighting shifts over into fucking - maybe looks about the same, maybe feels the same, too. They don’t talk about it. They don’t plan it. Sometimes it happens, sometimes it doesn’t, and either way the next morning Roque is up early, bitching and moaning about whatever Clay fucked up the day before. Life continues. Life is pretty goddamned good, to be honest, for a few years there.

And then there’s Max, and Clay loses Roque. Loses the kids, really. Gains Aisha, in a way - she’s her own, she’s here and there, comes and goes like the wind. But these days, mostly, he’s alone. And alone is not a good place for him to be. Never was. Roque used to—but it doesn’t matter, not really. He just drinks a little too much, trawls his old sources (thanks, Jensen) for things to do. He could, he supposes, hire out to some mercs, go shoot some people again. He misses it. But he can’t work under his own name, and too many people he saw in the Army are there now. Too risky.

Gets a couple of tattoos. Goes and visits the Pooch and Mrs. Pooch and the young Pooch. He makes it all of nine hours at their fine little house on a half acre before he has night terrors so bad he almost screams, almost loses the careful silence he scratched and tore his way to all those years ago. Visits Jensen and Cougar, their big house in a quiet neighborhood, watches them decide not to even try to hide that they’re fucking now. That’s a little better: for all their mowed lawn and white paint would imply, there’s stacks of guns and servers and maps all over the place. But even they’re not who they were, and Clay leaves pretty soon.

Is Clay still the same guy he was? He honestly can’t remember. Before the Army it’s mostly vague impressions: rainy weather, basketball, working construction gigs after school, good enough grades but zip interest in anything but war. Then Basic, and the rest; those memories are a blur, too, lots of pain and anger and also a deep, easy joy: this was where he was meant to be, what he was meant to be, who he was meant to be. This was right, finally. With the Losers, though, those days he remembers like a Polaroid, like a videotape. He wishes Roque was here. He wishes the kids hadn’t found happiness - selfish bastard, sure, always has been.

He wants the Losers back around him, like old times, and he can’t have that, and nothing’s ever going to fix it. Maybe another drink will, who knows. He dreams about a lush jungle, laughing kids in a speeding school bus, the last time his life was the way he wanted it to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Dry the Rain" by the Beta Band
> 
> > Dusty brown boots in the corner by the ironing board  
> > Spray on dust is the greatest thing  
> > Sure is the greatest thing  
> > Since the last, since the last


End file.
